


Flight Response

by WizardSandwich



Series: Prowl Week [2]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Panic, fight or flight response, he's questionably okay at it, idw-ish elements, prowl's first battle, sideswipe has the very cool instinct to adopt the first anxious mech he sees, someone does get shot but it's not like graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:47:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23677891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WizardSandwich/pseuds/WizardSandwich
Summary: Day 2 - HighThere are different types of highs and there are different ways of coming down.
Relationships: Prowl & Sideswipe & Sunstreaker (Transformers)
Series: Prowl Week [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1703245
Comments: 6
Kudos: 54
Collections: Prowl Week





	Flight Response

**Author's Note:**

> posting this a bit early again bc a) it's monday somewhere and b) i know i'm gonna wake up when it's like 3 pm

Prowl isn’t suited for battle. He’s never even been in a fire fight before. In fact, he’s avoided them his whole functioning, taking patrols and investigations that no other bot wanted specifically to do so. Prowl would, honestly, rather turn tail and beg the Autobots to brig him for refusing to fight. He’d rather get a blemish on his perfect record than fire a blaster.

But he can’t. And he won’t. Because it is his duty and there’s a blaster in his servos. His last chance to back out was a recruitment ago. He has no choice now, even if something—he’ll call it anxiety because panic would be a weakness in this—builds in his chest, twisting around his internals and making him feel sick.

Prowl feels his anxiety grow as another recruit shoves past him and toward the transport’s exit. The physical touch is almost sickening. It makes the weight in his chest heavier. He can only assume that it reminds him of the harshness, of the battle, he will find outside. It is the best explanation he has.

Gentle servos find his shoulders in the next moment. “Hey, you okay?” someone Prowl does not know asks.

Prowl turns his helm to looks at him. The mech’s face isn’t familiar, but his expression is laced with concern.

“Leave him be, Sideswipe,” another mech says. “We need to get out there.”

The mech—Sideswipe—looks down at Prowl and nods, mouth twisting into a frown. “C’mon,” Sideswipe says, yanking his helm to the side. He tugs on Prowl’s shoulder, but ultimately lets him go.

Prowl, almost instinctively, trails after him. The yellow mech looks down at Prowl as he follows them. “You need to stop picking up pet projects,” he says harshly. “He’s not going to make it.”

Sideswipe’s frown grows deeper and he looks away from both the mech and Prowl, but he doesn’t say a word. The lack of denial makes something else in Prowl’s tank churn, but he doesn’t have time to think on it. He can only try to fight the sick feeling that bubbles up.

The klik they exit the transport, Sideswipe turns to Prowl, “I’ve got to go. Stay alive, alright?”

Prowl nods numbly. He watches as the two of them run off toward the battle. His servos start shaking again. Left all alone, without even the strangers, he is not sure what to do. He can feel the fear and anxiety start to overtake him. Swallowing, he tries counting in his helm. It had never quite worked out for him before, but anything is worth trying now.

Distantly, he tries to remind himself of duty. Order has always been his friend. It has often made the twisting and pulling in his processor stop. So his duty to the Autobots will anchor him to the here and now. It has to.

He takes a step forward and then another. They had prepared him for this, for battle, but it’s different. There’s energon and explosions in the distance. The sounds of metal crunching. A scream. The boundary lines between factions grow less and less clear.

It occurs to Prowl that he is going to die here.

The thought makes his jaw clench. It makes the panic start to rise. He can feel it in his chest, in his throat. It is only pulled tighter by a stray shot coming too close. His processor spins. His first instinct is to run. The rational part of him, the part he tries to focus on, tells him to get to cover. He needs to see what’s happening and keep himself safe. He was ordered to stay alive.

His processor bites down on Sideswipe’s words. Prowl stumbles back before darting to the side. He is not the most agile mech but it is enough. He barely avoids another stray shot. Ahead, a formation of molten metal stands like a pillar. He shoves himself behind it. Servos still shaking, he checks his blaster to distract himself.

“Calm down,” he mutters, more to ground himself than anything. The Enforcers had frowned upon it, but Prowl thinks that he can have this luxury.

“You’ll be calm when you’re dead.”

Prowl looks up. He meets a glowing red visor and sharp denta. The mech is grinning at him, blaster in servo. Prowl freezes and does not answer.

“Not going to say anything?” the mech asks. “Pity.”

Prowl can feel his whole frame start to shake. His vents pick up. The mech takes a step forward, tossing his blaster from one servo to the other. Every step he takes makes Prowl’s panic grow.

It is only when Prowl realizes that he can’t run that he realizes his only other option. Prowl barely thinks as he lashes out.

His form is sloppy when he hits the mech. His fist isn’t really curled into a fist at all, just a flimsy mockery than he can barely remember making. He’s never hit anyone for anything other than training.

It doesn’t faze the mech. He doesn’t even flinch. He just laughs. “That’s the best you’ve got?” he taunts. “I thought you’d be more fun than that.”

Prowl shrinks back, suddenly back to looking for an exit. He lunges to the side, flinching as the mech tries to hit him.

He laughs again, “You Autobots really are pathetic, aren’t you?”

Prowl can’t stop shaking. He can’t think. He doesn’t know what to do. He thinks that if he tried to run, this mech would shoot him. He offlines his optics, for only a moment, to try to fight the panic that rises higher every klik. When he onlines them again the mech is right in front of him.

Prowl doesn’t think his vents are really taking in any air at all, with how they wheeze and sputter. He can hear his frame rattle over the sounds of fighting and the screams of his comrades. He looks around himself. His blaster is on the ground, meters away. Prowl had dropped it. He truly is defenseless now.

The mech’s servo grabs for him. It is all Prowl can do to scramble back. The mech darts forward, knocking Prowl onto his back. One of his doorwings crumples underneath him. His legs flail as he tries to knock the mech off of him. Unfortunately, he’s pinned faster than he can process it.

The mech sneers, clearly tired of whatever game he was playing. His servo comes up to Prowl’s throat. Prowl’s own scramble to clutch at his arm. He tries to dig his blunt digits into the mech’s plating. It has no effect. It does not stop Prowl from clawing, frantically trying to escape.

The mech asks, “Any last words?”

Prowl gasps, the panic truly all-consuming. This is how he will die. Under a Decepticon. He’s going to die. This Decepticon is going to rip out his throat. He will not be able to scream. He cannot fight. _He’s going to die._

“Yeah,” comes a vaguely familiar voice. It’s muffled against the foreground of Prowl’s panic. “Let him go.”

The mech looks up. His visor meets a blaster barrel. Standard edition, Prowl incoherently recognizes. The mech scrambles back, off of Prowl, suddenly looking terrified.

Prowl rolls over onto his knees and servos. He doesn’t take a moment to get his bearings. He just moves to his pedes, frantic. He gets away from the mech as quickly as he can. He moves behind Sideswipe, not even bothering to stop himself from clinging to his back. The other mech he is with, the yellow one, has a blaster to the Decepticon’s helm.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t shoot,” he demands.

The Decepticon shakes but stays silent. He doesn't speak a word in his own defense. He does not have one. The yellow mech nods, as if this what he was expecting. His digit comes down on the trigger. Prowl hears the splatter of energon hitting the ground and a loud thud.

In the next moment, Prowl finds himself on the ground, scrambling backward and away from his saviors. His venting somehow manages to get worse. One of his internal fans cracks. The pain is sharp and grounding.

Sideswipe’s servos are on him again and he cannot help the fight he gives. It’s not a good one—worse than how he’d tried to fend off the Decepticon—but he tries nonetheless.

“Sh, sh. Calm down.” He feels himself pulled close to Sideswipe’s chest. Arms wrap around him, keeping him still.

Prowl tries to wrench himself out of the grip, but it is futile. Sidewipe is stronger than him. Prowl’s fight slowly dies down, coming to a desperate stop when his limbs start to feel heavy and limp. He wants to lie down and never get up.

He realizes, then, that his face is damp. Desperately, though sluggishly, he tries to wipe it away. Sideswipe runs a servo across his helm, “Hey, you’re okay. Let it out.”

As if it were permission, Prowl feels the dam break.

Prowl _sobs._ His breath hitches. He gasps for air to cool his overheating frame. The knot in his throat seems to make it only more difficult. Coolant smears across his face and drips down his chin. Sideswipe, _a stranger,_ only holds him tighter.

“Is he hurt?” the yellow mech asks.

“I think it’s mostly cosmetic,” Sideswipe says. “And, well, emotional.”

Prowl tries to curl in on himself. His panic is slowly dying down and he feels tired. The words only make him feel shame.

“Get him to the transport.”

Sideswipe shifts and Prowl feels himself being lifted. His panic flares again, though not as intensely as before. His digits scramble against Sideswipe’s plating. Sideswipe shushes him again, speaking in a low tone that Prowl thinks is meant to be calming. He tries to listen to the words but all he can focus on his tears and the growing tiredness of his frame.

“You’ll be okay,” Sideswipe says, these words louder than the rest.

Prowl isn’t sure if he believes him or not, but he’s too tired to think about it. He’s too tired to panic again, when it dies down the second time. He sinks into the warm weight of an almost-stranger’s frame and lets it all go black.


End file.
